Return to the Game
by cjnwriter
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and his Watson return to the action of criminal-busting, now in 22nd Century London. One-shot, Watson's POV, exists in KnightFury's universe, so the original Watson has been brought back.


**A/N: Hooray, my first Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century fanfiction!**

**This exists in KnightFury's universe, where the old Watson has also been brought back.**

**Written in present tense. Watson's POV.**

Six thugs—several with multiple tattoos and facial piercings—close in on us in the cluttered little prop attic of the old theatre. Holmes had insisted that we go on ahead without waiting for backup from Lestrade, and while I did not entirely approve, I also did not argued as much as I might have either.

I am beginning to regret that now. However, they do not appear to be the most intelligent of fellows nor the quickest, and thankfully Lestrade had gotten my favorite jacket ionizer-proofed (like Holmes's Inverness) just the week before. We would have a decent chance in a fight.

"Hand over the evidence, Sherlock Holmes," says the toughest-looking of the thugs, apparently the leader.

"I think it will do much more good in the hands of Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard," my friend replies cooly, eyeing the disc in his hand before sliding it into an inside pocket of his Inverness. "I'm sure they will be happy to learn the location of the headquarters, and names of all the members in your tobacco-smuggling ring."

"We aren't stupid, we know you used to be a smoker, you gotta understand where we're coming from here," whines one of the smaller of the smugglers.

"Shut up, Peter," mutters another of the ruffians, elbowing him in the ribs. "Like that's gonna help us now."

"That was in a different lifetime, and tobacco is illegal now," Holmes responds succinctly. "Well, gentleman, it is high time we all headed back to Scotland Yard."

"Who's gonna make us? A dead detective and his useless sidekick?" taunts the first thug, crossing his muscular arms across his broad chest, muscles bulging menacingly.

At the speed of lightening, Holmes swings his walking stick and knocks the man's feet out from under him.

"You mean the alive and able-bodied detective!" I correct, barely containing a laugh at the man's shocked expression as I dodge a blow from the fellow nearest to me.

"And his extremely useful friend!" Holmes adds with a snarl as his man—still in shock—collapses headlong onto a pile of cardboard boxes, his ionizer clattering across the uneven floorboards.

The purple-haired chap snatches it nimbly up before I can reach it. He aims it at me but I swing my walking stick, squarely hitting his his bony wrist. The ionizer flies out of his grasp and backward over his head.

I am grabbed from behind by a set of thin but strong arms and I instinctively perform one of the Baritsu moves Holmes had painstakingly taught me all those years ago, throwing the chap over my head. He lands awkwardly on his ankle, twisting it. He gives a shout of pain as I whirl round to glimpse Holmes catching the airborne ionizer and tripping the one called Peter with a long leg.

As Peter crashes backward into a rack of pirate costumes, an ionizer blast hits a shelf a few feet to Holmes's left. Two old vases hit the floor and shatter, shards of glass flying. Another blast follows, this one hitting the wall behind Holmes and I see that it came from a table at the other end of the room. I sprint toward the spot, but someone grabs me by the ankle. I thrash until he releases me, then stumble forward.

A large brute of a man to my left trips and falls backward, catching himself on a rickety cabinet. It topples over, spilling out several wooden swords that fall to the old floorboards with a clatter. He snatches one up, and wheels round to face me. I dodge his sudden and rather wild swings and drop to the floor to dodge another ionizer blast. My shoulder slams into a heavy rotary dial phone. I cringe as falls from its stand and it crashes to the ground; new as the technology seemed to me, it was certainly an antique now.

Leaping to my feet, I parry a few times against his fake sword with my stick, and then am forced to duck again to dodge another shot from across the room. The fellow with the sword was not so lucky, and is hit with the blast, which incapacitates him. His head hits the edge of a metal crate of hats, rendering him unconscious before he hits the floor, covered with dusty bowlers and top hats, several bonnets and baseball caps, and a tricorne.

Someone behind me snatches my walking stick from my grasp and I whirl round to face my adversary. Unfortunately for the man, Holmes is onto him in a moment, engaging him in a bout of fisticuffs. My friend overcomes the weaker and less experienced fighter quickly.

In the ensuing confusion, my stick hits the floor with a clatter and rolls beneath a cabinet. Yet another ionizer blast whizzes by, this one terrifyingly near my head. I somersault behind a rack of dusty Elizabethan-style dresses for cover. Peering between the garish skirts, I then see that the thug with the ionizer is under another table not three feet away!

Upon seeing that I have spotted him, he gives me a gap-toothed grin, then aims the ionizer for the rack of dresses. I scramble to my feet and back up a few feet behind my makeshift dress-shield.

"Watson!" Holmes calls, and I whirl round in time to see him throwing me an ionizer. I catch it in midair, pivot on the spot, and step around the clothes rack to face the last criminal still conscious. Stepping around the table, I train the ionizer carefully on his chest. The grin melts off his wide face, and he seems to deflate like a rubber balloon with a nasty leak.

"Hand over the ionizer, and come out with your hands above your head," I order.

The malefactor scowls darkly, but complies. Holmes has just handcuffed him when the door flies open and Inspector Lestrade bursts in, closely followed by two policemen.

She stops dead in her tracks, surveying the unfortunate prop room, now in shambles. "What the zed happened here?!" she exclaims.

"We caught you a smuggling ring, Lestrade, as well as the evidence required to convict them," my friend replies impishly, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and grinning at her. "Happy Easter." He extracts the disc from his pocket and hands it to her.

Lestrade was silent for a moment as she slides the disc into her own pocket pocket. "But what were you thinking?! You two could've been hurt!" Lestrade exclaims. She seems quite upset and though this is understandable, her reaction was stronger than the severity of the situation required.

"We are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves, as we have on countless occasions before and against far deadlier foes than these," I say gently, attempting to calm her a little bit.

She shakes her head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "Zedding old idiots". Then she says, "Well, I'll take this lot off your hands. Thanks, Sherlock and you too, Watson, of course. Just don't make a habit of this, OK guys?"

"All right," Holmes and I both reply.

As soon as Lestrade leaves the room with her prisoners, Holmes catches my eye and grins. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

I return his smile. We have not been in a situation like this since old times, and it looks like we are just as good as—or perhaps even better than—we were back then. After all, with my war wounds all healed and both of our bodies restored to that of men between the ages of twenty and thirty, we could take on nearly anything.

My grin widened. "Oh, yes."


End file.
